


Remember Me

by Colourless_Green_Ideas



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Phil Coulson, Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders, Circus Performer Clint Barton, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Music, Mercenary Clint Barton, Sign Language, Songfic, Trapeze, but not actually i promise, carny cant, its mostly pidgin though, just the plot is heavily inspired by the song, lots of languages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2019-11-12 17:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18015353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colourless_Green_Ideas/pseuds/Colourless_Green_Ideas
Summary: A series of life-changing moments when it comes to Clinton Francis Barton, starting from childhood all the way up to the his joining of a certain super-secret boyband. Rest assured, life is never boring when your resume includes everything from mercenary to circus headliner to orphan to superhero, all in one lifetime.Heavily inspired by a particular b-side song (brownies points to whoever guesses which song that is)





	1. Beneath The Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so remember how I said I'd update A Swing & A Miss eventually? Yeah I'm doing this instead, and I already have all of it mapped out and over a third of it written so...this first. Basically I heard a song and it got stuck in my head and it kinda made a cohesive story so here we're at. Which, by the way, I've got eternal love for whoever catches what song this is based off of first.
> 
> Updates are gonna be quick as I can, probably all of it over next week since I have a break from uni then but no promises. I have a lot of it done but given that I'm at the end of my undergrad career (sorta) and I'm in three and a half creative writing classes right now that all require exactly 1 metric shitton of new work per week.... well break is gonna be my best friend here. Any updates will be posted on my tumblr: www.ctawrites.tumblr.com, so check there first.
> 
> But anyway, notes out of the way, let's start the show!

“No, the mountains should be over _there_! It doesn’t make no sense for them to be by the _forest_!”

“And why’s that?” Barney asked, leaning over the map with a pencil in his hand as they huddled in the back corner of their dad’s butcher shop. They should have been working.

“’Cause all the rain’d wash away all the good dirt so nothin’ could grow!” Clint answered proudly. He always got good scores in science. He liked it, but not as much as he liked gym.

Barney just nodded like he knew all along – he probably did – and quickly erased the mountains, penciling them in closer to the corner where their piggy bank sat – the one that Barney made for his fifth grade art project last year in school – keeping the corner of their make-shift map from curling up and hiding the swirling rivers that led to through their imaginary forest.

“See, we’re gonna need your smarts out on the road. That an’ my fightin’ and no one’ll _ever_ bother us.” Barney said, carefully sketching the mountaintops and valleys, “We would be outta here before dad’d even wake up, once we get enough cash.”

Clint smiled softly to himself, fantasizing about finally leaving, getting to see the world beyond their own four walls and the shitty grade school down the street. They didn’t even teach kids how to fight back; how did they expect those city kids to survive?

“So,” Barney continued, “Mountains here, forest there, lake over near the fishin’ boats . . . what else d’you think is out there?”

Clint thought on that for a second. “Whadd’about a carnival? Or a circus!”

That earned a small chuckle from Barney before he wrapped his arm loosely around his little brother’s neck and dug his fist into Clint’s hair. “’Course there’d be a circus! Real dumb of me not to add it!” Barney let his brother go and picked up his pencil from where he’d dropped it on the cold concrete floor of their father’s shop and got back to work, using the worn-down stub to make a quick sketch of a circus tent next to the forest, complete with a clown and a lion tamer sitting outside, waving towards his little brother.

Clint still didn’t understand how his brother made drawings that looked like they were facing you when all Clint could manage was a stick figure with blocky clothes, and he didn’t think he ever would. Even so, Clint laughed at the clown and the goofy lion Barney added in the background, making the vicious animal seem harmless and fun.

Too bad it couldn’t last.

“Clinton Francis and Charles Bernard Barton, what the _hell_ do you think you little shits are doing on _my time_?!?”

Both boys shot up and stood stock still facing their father, hanging their heads, Barney clutching his pencil stub in his hand.

“Well?!” Their father shouted, spray that smelled like alcohol and sweat showering Clint’s dirty hair.

“We ain’t doin’ nothing!” Barney shouted right back. Clint knew he would never be able to be that bold in fear of getting a beating – which Barney definitely would – but his brother was always brave enough for the both of them.

Clint took at peek at their father when he was quiet for a moment too long, and all he saw was a red, swollen tomato where their father’s face would be, looking about ready to explode.

Luckily, the front door chimed just then, saving them from a severe tongue-lashing. Their father seemed to turn even redder before huffing and turning away, not without a glare at both his sons, going off to tend to his customer.

As soon as he left, both boys heaved a sigh of relief before scrambling to get back to work, not wanting to waste another second in case their father suddenly came back, looking for someone to give a whooping to.

Clint distracted himself quickly with his work, sharpening the big knives before moving to the meat grinder to fill up the sausage tubes. It was repetitive and tiring sometimes, but every once in a while, if their father was truly, spectacularly drunk, he gave Clint and Barney a cut of the profits. Usually it was only a few dollars, but it was enough.

Most of the money went to clothes, or sometimes food if it’d been more than a few days since they’d had dinner, but the rest of it went straight to their piggy bank, kept safe in their shared room until they found an opportunity for escape.

It was a silly dream, he knew. A fairytale. His dad was most definitely a villain, but there were no heroes in Iowa as far as he knew. They were stuck and they both knew it, but it made him feel better to hope. Maybe, if he never stopped believing they could escape, it might happen one day.

That day wasn’t today, though, Clint realized when he heard the metallic clink of his father’s belt behind him. He hadn’t even noticed he was there.

Maybe this time he would go easy on him, it _was_ his birthday today, but he doubted it. Clint had done something wrong, and he was going to pay.

 

\--

 

Two years.

It had been a little over two years since the maps were made, and here Clint was, hiding in his neighbor’s rosebush as he watched valiantly for his father’s black truck to pull up with their next shipment of meat.

Clint had learned a lot in those two years, even matured a bit. Already seven and a quarter years old, he was just getting big enough to help out with the whole pigs and the rest of the meat in the shop, he even had time now that his dad had pulled him out of school to help. Barney had been teaching him how to throw rocks and things with precision on the side, and how use anything around him as a weapon. Along with the fighting, Barney taught him strategy and how to wait, making him sit on top of the shed for hours some days to see if he could catch them a bird because he was always much better at staying still than his big brother could ever be.

So that was how he ended up here, sort of. He wasn’t too sure why he was in the rosebushes. If he were to have the choice, he would be up on the rooftop, high above the glares of strangers and his father’s swinging fists, watching as the world ambled on before him, unaffected in his own little bubble of contentness.

It was a little poetic, he knew, and Barney would probably punch him and call him a nerd if he ever found out, but nothing could compare to the feeling of being high above all your troubles, where nothing could touch you. It was like his own little paradise.

But, sadly, that wasn’t where he was now. No, he was crouched on achy legs in the beginning of winter, thorns digging into his neck and sides and face that was still aching warmly from where his father had hit him with a book that morning. At least Clint had had the sense to put on the sweater Barney got him for Christmas this year – purple with black reindeer – before dad left and Barney shoved him outside to wait for his return.

And where was Barney? Probably inside making some cocoa if Clint were to take a guess. He didn’t really blame him, though. If he had his own younger brother, Clint would probably make him do all the grunt work, too. Anything to avoid being stuck on the ground one minute longer.

Clint saw the car before he heard it, perched where he was at the corner junction of his street. His hearing had always been a little off ever since his dad threw him into the TV – then blamed him when it broke – so he learned to rely on his eyes a long time ago.

He was supposed to be looking for black cars, for the truck, but it wasn’t often a cop car rolled down their street, not slow but not fast either. They weren’t cruising, or chasing nobody, but still something about it set Clint on edge. Something was wrong.

He stood, quick and quiet – too far away for the driver to see him – and dove off towards the backyard, the neighbor’s yappy dog at his heels. Despite his overwhelming urge to pet the poor thing, he kept running, thin soles pounding against the newly frozen ground as he jumped the low fences between adjoining yards, almost ripping his pants once or twice and getting close to ruining his new sweater when he tripped over some kid’s kiddy pool now full of ice because of the sudden chill.

Once he finally reached the house, his clothes were cold and dirty, but luckily none of them ripped. They had enough problems not to worry about buying new jeans.

He threw open the heavy steel back door to the butcher shop and sprinted up the steps, taking them two at a time before he burst into the door of their third floor home to see Barney in the kitchen, reading a worn book about aliens and spaceships. He calmly looked up when the door slammed open, gesturing a hello with the mug in his hand – full of cocoa, Clint knew - before dog-earing the old book and carefully placing it on the table. It had been Clint’s birthday present from him this year, swiped from a church rummage sale, and he knew Barney appreciated it by the number of sticky notes and folded corners there were.

“’S’it dad?” Barney asked as he approached his younger brother, not worried in the slightest. It had been just the two of them for so long that they could read even the subtlest of clues off each other, and he knew it was a little too early for their dad to be back.

Clint ran a hand through his mussed up hair, a habit that he could never figure out where he picked up, and shook his head. Now that he thought about it, he had no idea what caused his to race home so quickly. It was just a cop car, nothing special, yet every fiber in his being shouted at him to go be with Barney, so he did. His instincts had never failed him before.

“No,” Clint mumbled, suddenly ashamed to have ruined his brother’s nice worry free day, “There was this cop-mobile and it looked kinda off, like they were headed somewhere special, so I came racin’ back. It’s nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

Barney gave him that pained look he always got whenever Clint did something stupid, which was always in his opinion. “Clint, there wasn’t anythin’ wrong with that pig, promise.” Barney said, a hand on his little brother’s shoulder as he spoke. “Now why dontcha come siddown and have a drink with me? I can getcha some eggnog if dad didn’t drink it all.”

Clint just nodded. He knew Barney was disappointed, but didn’t want to say it in fear of ruining his day. He just wished that his older brother would tell him the truth instead of burying him with empty gestures and stale compliments.

Barney nodded back and headed to the fridge, taking a half second pause in his steps once he got about half way. Clint knew enough about his brother’s behavior by now to know that that meant he heard someone ring the bell.

“I’ll get it!” Clint shouted, racing his brother to the door - slamming his head against the corner on the way – reaching the call button a second faster. “Who is it?”

A light crackling came over the receiver before a man with a husky voice answered, saying something Clint couldn’t quite decipher.

 _Police_ , Barney signed, well aware of Clint’s hearing problems.

Clint frowned slightly before moving away from the door, giving Barney the freedom to decide whether or not to let them in. Barney just sighed as he reached past his little brother to press the button that unlocked the main door. He looked at Clint for a moment, then left for the kitchen, leaving Clint alone at the door.

Luckily, he came back just as someone on the other side knocked on the front door, and gestured to Clint to open it as his hands were full with both mugs of cocoa. Clint took a deep breath, puffing his chest out before opening the door confidently, looking at the adults cautiously, knowing full well the dangers of the police “sniffing around”, as Barney called it, when he lived like he did, with little regard for the law.

Clint could see that the older – clearly senior – one had a head of greying hair on top of his square-ish head, his skin a shade that Clint had come to associate with the mob on TV and his eyes a fading black. His partner, a tall, lean woman with straw colored hair pulled back into a loose bun behind her head and skin the color of snow stood next to him, rocking back on her heels.

The woman smiled pitifully at him and before he could respond, Barney was right behind him, speaking in that voice he only used on customers or other adults. “Hello sir, miss. How can I help ya?”

“Are you boys related to Edith and Henry Barton by any chance?” The woman spoke with a lilt to her voice not usually heard in their tiny little town. She must have just moved there.

“Yeah, is there a problem?” Barney asked before Clint could get a word out, again.

The man looked to his companion before speaking, as if his words held the weight of the world. “I’m truly sorry to have to say this.” He said, taking a pause before tilting his head down slightly and clasping his hands in front of him. “Your parents were in an accident this morning. We suspect your father was drunk and- and they hit a tree. Both of them were killed on impact. I’m so sorry.”

Clint felt numb. His father, that piece of drunken shit who raised him, was gone, and he took his loving mother with him. Distantly, Clint knew he should be feeling _something_ , but really, he was just plain numb.

More words were said, but Clint didn’t listen to any of them, too busy sorting through the pros and cons of this event in his head, just like Barney taught him. On one hand, they were his _parents_ and they were _gone_. But on the other hand, he couldn’t think of a single time they had ever done anything truly nice for him. Ever.

They fed him and clothed him, but so did Barney, plus now they get the shop and all the money.

They raised him, but it was actually Barney that did all of the heavy lifting.

If he were to be honest with himself, Barney was more of a parent to him than his real ones ever were. As long as Barney didn’t pass out drunk and crash into a tree, Clint’s life wasn’t too much different than it was before.

Well, until he tuned back in to the conversation, that is.

“-And the both of you will be sent to a home in the city for orphans like you. You can grow up, meet some people, and maybe even get yourself into a foster family for a little bit. You’ll like it, promise.” The woman said before she turned to make her exit. “We’ll be back here tomorrow to pick you up to bring you out there. And I really am sorry what happened and I’m glad you two have each other.” Her final words before departing along with her partner down the hallway to the elevator.

Clint looked over to Barney to see him looking almost empty inside - Was father really that much better to him than he was to Clint? – just until he shut the front door on its heavy hinges, signaling their guests departure. Then Barney practically jumped for joy, twirling around, careful of his mug of cocoa, chanting loudly “We’re free!”

Clint, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure of their freedom. “But, Barney? Didn’t they say we were going to a group home? Isn’t that bad?”

Barney ceased in his spinning just long enough to look at his brother with a face splitting grin. “Yeah, sure, but we can get outta there now! We got enough money to run away now and live our lives on the road! We can be cowboys like in the old days or mercs or- or- _anything!_ ”

Clint didn’t really get it, but the thought of being a cowboy sent him into a frenzy of excitement. A _cowboy_ , like on TV and those old movies their mom rented with them when she wasn’t too bruised and broken to stand. Maybe this was the miracle they needed to finally be able to escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm aware the cops wouldn't leave two kid boys alone without parents. While Clint was fantasizing, Barney was sweet-talking the officers, telling them all about how their aunt was visiting but she was in the bath and wouldn't want to be disturbed and also was very afraid of cops, maybe they should make themselves scarce before she came down yelling and screaming, blah blah blah. Barney is absolutely a great pitchman (which will come in handy quite soon)
> 
> If you're enjoying it so far, leave some kudos or a comment or two, I promise I shall cherish them forever.


	2. With Gray Handshakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders and other places that may or may not come up later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa, two chapters in one day? Have I gone insane? Probably, honestly.  
> This one's kinda short so I thought I'd just shove 'em both together. Enjoy!

In the end, the foster homes didn’t work out too well. A smartass like Barney and a deaf kid like Clint weren’t at the top of anybody’s list for a new kid, though more people were willing to put up with Clint than Barney, against all odds.

They stopped at a orphanage between families, usually the same one in a church in Des Moines, but sometimes other places in Iowa that Clint could neither pronounce nor remember the name of. They both got turfed at the same time for the first time in a while, and it was no wonder Barney’s talk in their room at night circled back to the same old topics.

“We gotta get outta here, Clint.”

Clint shrugged. The foster families weren’t so bad, the last one would have adopted him, even, if they hadn’t had to move to another country for work so suddenly. “Where’re we gonna go, Barney?”

There was a rustling sound from Barney’s bunk underneath him that sounded like static through his brand-new hearing aids. A crumpled up piece of paper bounced off the bed post and landed on his chest. He flattened it out best he could and tried to read it in the dim light. It was some sort of poster with a red and white striped tent in the middle and a bunch of circles with people’s faces in them on either side. He didn’t have to read the writing to know what Barney was getting at. “You wanna run to the _circus_?”

Sure, that had been their plan originally, back when they were living in the apartment above the butcher shop when he was a little kid, but he was grown up now, almost ten, and he knew that those were just dreams. Kids didn’t _actually_ run away and join the circus…right?

“They’ll take us in, I’m sure of it.” Barney’s head popped up above the edge of his bed. He was more excited than Clint had seen him in years. “I snuck out yesterday to watch them set up, and they got people whose whole job is to set up and take down the tent and stuff, and paste up posters and take care of the elephants and sell tickets. I can sell anything to anybody, no doubt about that, and maybe you can take care of the dogs or make the popcorn or carry around props. We just gotta show them we’re worth it.”

Clint wasn’t so sure, but he wasn’t going to be the one to burst his brother’s bubble this time. “Sure, Barney. Sounds good. We can go and ask ‘em tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow it’ll be too hard to sneak out. Sister Harriet’ll be keeping a close eye ‘cause she knows we all wanna see the show. We gotta do it tonight or never, Clint.”

Well, at least it’ll be over quick, then. “A’ight, let’s go.”

 

\--

 

It was laughably easy to sneak onto the lot past the trailers and train cars lined up front to back. Clint had never actually been to a circus before, but in the dark without all the lights it didn’t seem to be much different from a trailer park he’d stayed in with a family once, a few years ago. Lots of trash around, trailers grouped up in wonky lines, shouting coming from the cracked open windows - the only difference was the big tent in the middle and the smaller ones scattered around.

Clint looked at all the graffiti on the trailers as they walked through, looking mostly at the shapes and colors, but some he made Barney read out. They said stuff that he didn’t understand like “we’ll meet again,” and “fuck the man,” and “tell my mother not to worry.” He couldn’t think of a reason why anyone would want to write weird stuff like that on their homes.

The boss’ trailer, according to Barney, was obviously the one in the middle so he could watch over everybody. Plus it was a little bigger, since the boss got more room for being the boss and doing boss stuff. Barney was great with words most of the time, but he was a little distracted. Clint forgave him.

Barney swaggered up to the door and knocked loudly. “Hello! Anybody awake in there?”

He was only asking out of courtesy, Clint knew he could see the thin line of light escaping underneath the curtain that covered the trailer window. The door opened with a bang a moment later, throwing the bright yellow light into Clint’s face, blinding him for a second. When he could finally blink the blots of white out of his eyes he almost couldn’t believe what he saw.

A woman stood there, haloed by the light behind her. She was dressed all in white with ribbons tied to her arms that shivered lightly in the air like wings, her hair a bright blonde that fell down to her shoulders in the ghost of ringlets. She was easily the most beautiful person Clint had ever seen.

She turned her head back towards the inside of the trailer. “You got some kids out here for ya, Carson.”

A man’s voice shouted something, and the woman turned her face back towards them with a soft smile. “Hi, y’all,” She said, her voice like honey, “My name’s Angel. Come on in, Carson’ll probably be interested in whatever it is you’ve gotta say.”

She held out her hand to help them up the steep step to the trailer, but Barney waved it off. Clint knew he hated to seem like he needed help from anybody, and Clint was usually the same way, but there was no way he was going to lose a chance to touch an angel. He followed after Barney, taking her hand which was like warm silk in his grip, holding on a moment after he needed to just so he could memorize the soft texture before she ran off. She disappeared quickly in the dark outside the trailer, wings floating behind her like she was ready to take off any minute. Clint watched until he could no longer see her in the moonless night.

He was almost too distracted to realize Barney had already started his pitch, talking a mile a minute like he did when he was trying to explain something that someone should already know. The man he was talking at, who must be Carson, sat in a big fluffy armchair with his fingers locked together under his chin. He was wearing the costume Clint assumed he wore for the show, with striped fancy pants and a shirt with a bow tie. His outfit was almost exactly like the one that his foster dad wore to his barbershop quartet three families ago. Clint had no idea what a barbershop quartet was, but his older sister there thought it was super embarrassing, so he pretended like he thought that too. The mom said they gave him away because they couldn’t pay for two kids at once with only the dad’s job, but Clint was pretty sure it was because the dad thought Clint didn’t like him and his outfits.

“So you see, sir,” Barney finished off, throwing his hands wide like he was the one in control of the circus, “Us being orphans and all, we’d make great recruits, and workers for life if you’d have us.”

Carson licked his lips quickly, darting his tongue like a snake. “What’re your names, kids?”

“I’m Barney, and this is my brother Clint.”

Carson looked straight into Clint’s eyes, something most people avoided because they were, apparently, creepy and too sharp and "looked right through into your soul". Clint mostly looked at people’s lips when they were talking anyways to see what they were saying, so he didn’t mind the lack of eye contact too much. “What about you, boy? You talk?”

“Yes, sir.” Clint enunciated clearly, like Barney taught him to do.

“And whaddya think about your brother’s plan, here? You wanna run away and join the circus like all the other boys and girls?”

Clint twisted up his mouth, thinking. What would Barney say? “I don’t got anywhere to run away from, really, just here to run to.” That sounded smart enough to him, and Barney’s beaming smile meant he thought Clint did good, too. “Plus, we ain’t like all the other boys and girls, I promise.”

He didn’t say they were different because Clint couldn’t hear and Barney could beat a grown man in a fight, most adults didn’t like that.

“Well, then.” Carson stood up, still crouching a little so his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling. “Welcome to the Land of Misfit Toys.”

He stuck out his hand to shake, and Barney took it first, shaking the man’s hand up and down hard like the businessmen on TV. Clint thought that was silly, so when Carson took his hand he simply gripped it tight, but not too tight, and bounced only a little. Carson seemed pleased by this, and gifted him with a small smile.

“You’ll start tomorrow. Make sure to sleep well boys, we’ve got an early morning ahead of us.”


	3. Making fools of all the neighbors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint here is about 12 and 1/3 or so years old, so about five years from the beginning of this story and a little under two years since they joined Carson's. There's a bunch of cant (carny language) in here that I did my best to contextualize, but I'll lay it all out in the end notes.

Clint started off a tackspitter with the Company, riding with the advance crew a week ahead to paste up bills and posters for the show, and in two years that hadn’t changed. Though, sometimes they let him go out with the nightriders to cover up the posters for the _Wait Brothers Show_. He was pretty sure that wasn’t their real name, but since he couldn’t read too well even with the Bearded Lady’s lessons he had no idea what they did say.

It was nice, getting to see new places and run around cities with nothing but his own mind. He had always loved the quiet, since noise meant people expecting him to say something or, worse, know when _they_ said something. Being on his own meant he got to relax for once and not worry about talking or listening or fighting. Plus, the posters looked cool and he got to explore the whole town looking for cool places to put them up.

They were in a small town this time called Portsmouth, and they were fucking crazy for Halloween there. The only thing the show did was put some smiling pumpkins on the posters and make new costumes some of the crew in black and orange and purple. Clint especially liked the purple ones, that had always been his favorite color and it really popped under the bright lights. But in the town all the shops were decked out. Skeletons and bats everywhere, kids in superhero costumes, too-bright blood dripping down windows. It was nice. It reminded him of some of the happier times back with his parents.

They let him go out alone Halloween night, well alone with Barney. They couldn’t be bothered to walk around the neighborhood with them, and Barney was old enough to keep him out of trouble, so they got one night of freedom, dressed up with whatever they could find on their own. Usually it was just white face paint and a dark hoodie, but sometimes Barney got creative with some of dad’s old clothes and made up some pirate costumes or secret spy outfits. They used to spend the whole night playing pranks on the neighbor boys instead of getting candy – their dad would eat all of it anyway.

Last Halloween before the old man bit it they got separated about halfway through the night. Barney was already 9, so he got to hang out with some of the older kids, but Clint couldn’t keep up with their long strides. He fell behind, and in the crowd there was no way he could find them again. He spent most of the night trick-or-treating, having fun with some of the kids his age. It was awesome, for a while, until he got home with his big bag of candy and toys and Barney gave him a look that could curdle milk. He was so embarrassed back then, that he did something so childish as trick-or-treating, but looking back he knew that despite all the fun he had with Barney playing tricks, he liked the treats a lot better.

But that was years ago, and right now he was tacking up the bills, and he needed to find to some high-traffic areas. There was a bunch of people walking slow up ahead, on some outer edge of town. Usually he was told to stick near the center, but after a few years doing fuck all but pasting up bills and running props, they gave him a little leeway when it came to his job. He knew what he was doing by now.

The people were centered near an old rundown house, a gated one like the Adams Family. The gates used to be intricate, with swirling circles and little metal trees inside, but time turned it into a rusted mess with only a little of the original design left. Only a discerning eye could see the craftsmanship put into it, and Clint had a real good eye.

He walked up to the gates, spotting a sign on the lawn. There was a bunch of curly letters, and Clint recognized the word _house_ but that was about it. Probably the haunted kind, if the creepy old building shtick meant anything. There was something about it, though, that piqued his interest. It felt familiar, but he knew he’d never been anywhere near it before. The advance was all making a big fuss about the new stop since they’d never seen it before and it’d take twice as much work to find the right places to tack up bills and get the word out. That, and he’d never been outside Iowa before he’d joined up, and they were way up the East Coast. This was the last show of the season, so they were headed back to upstate New York to store their gear and find some winter lodging to hunker down until Spring.

Clint shook his head, dislodging the memories. He needed to keep on, the rest of the advance would be meeting back up for drinks and grub around sundown, and the sky was starting to get a little orange already. He pasted up the posters on the gate, one rightside up and the other upside down, and headed back towards the grounds where they set up their tents that morning. He didn’t want to be the last one there, or he’d have to pay for everybody, and he didn’t make near enough cash for that.

\--

Barney and the rest of the crew showed up a week later. The advance spent most of that tackspitting, the rest acting as pitchmen to the local businesses so they’d give out coupons for the show. Barney’d ended up a razorback – a name that nobody knew where it came from, but Clint suspected it was because they were aggressive like the hogs and after years of work their spines started to get wonky and push out of their backs like razors. Barney’d help haul everything off the cars the day before the first show and throw it all back on the night of the last. The rest of the time he was pseudo security and an extra hand, helping the grippers and prop masters with pre-show prep.

Clint and Barney both were always the most amped up the day before the show. After a few days’ rest, they were always ready to get up and go. Clint was always better at staying still, physically at least, but mentally he was ready to climb up the walls after a day with nothing to do. Barney couldn’t handle either, though. He was tapping his feet, drumming his fingers, pacing the length of the train car at fifty laps a minute – at least, that’s what the artists told Clint. His own schedule was a week earlier, so he never saw Barney do any worse than a twitchy leg.

Soon as he stepped off the train, which was barely at a rolling stop, he was jumping up and down, shaking out his nervous energy.

“You ready, Clint?”

Clint looked up from the piece of wood he was whittling. The Swordsman, whose real name sounded like the dukey tickets they paid artists to use for meals before they got their paper money, gave him a knife and taught him to use it after Clint was the only one who could handle his throwing knives without dinging them. He was planning to make something easy to start out, an arrow or something. He always thought that the bow and arrow act that Trickshot pulled was pretty cool.

“Ready for what? My job’s been done for two days.”

Barney waved him away. “I meant for Halloween, dumbass.”

Clint rolled his eyes and focused back on his work. Barney’s voice was one of the few familiar enough that he could make it out without strictly looking at him. The only other still alive was Fancy Pants Carson, since Clint heard him give the same speech four nights in a row every week.

“We haven’t done Halloween since we were kids in Waverly.”

“Yeah, so?” Barney threw his jacket off in Clint’s direction, barely missing the campfire that was flickering out beside him. “If it ain’t too good for the carnies, it ain’t too good for us. Plus we passed it up the last few years, we gotta do _something_ before we get all old and grey.”

Barney got up close to Clint’s face, putting a hand on Clint’s whittling slowly to push it down out of his way. He started moving his hands, using the pidgin sign language they’d come up with years ago. _You wanna prank the adults?_

Clint smirked. It would be kinda fun to give back a little of the crap he’d gotten over the last few years. He already had a couple ideas floating around – replace the Swordsman’s swords with rubber fakes, throw some painted rocks in the cow shit to make the bullhands think they were hitting gold, cut a few inches off all of Fancy Pants’ pants, and that was just off the top of his head. He was sure he could think of a lot more after a day of watching the set up. This was going to be fun.

_Sure, why not?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tackspitter - someone who puts up posters (aka bills) around town before the circus gets there to get the word out
> 
> The advance crew are sent about a week ahead of the regular show to put up posters and give out coupons and tear down other shows' bills.
> 
> The Wait Brothers are the Ringling Brothers, whose bills used to (and I believe still do) say "Wait for the Big Show"
> 
> pasting a poster upside down meant it was the last show of the season (it was mostly a way to get rid of twice as many of their leftover posters at once)
> 
> razorbacks are as described, and I really have never met anyone that knows exactly why they're called that. Clint's guess is my own idea.
> 
> grippers are the ones running the ropes for the aerialist acts, and prop masters take care of the props
> 
> The Swordsman's name is Duquesne, and dukey tickets are meal tickets that the men on the crew and the clowns get paid before they get any real money, especially on longer running shows, since if you left them to their own devices most people on the show would starve themselves by spending all their money on beer and cigarettes. They do get paper money, but some of their cut is taken out to make sure they ingest real, non-alcoholic food and drink.
> 
> Fancy Pants is actually a title for the main man on the show, the MC for lack of better words.
> 
> bullhands are the ones that clean up the elephant shit, for the most part, but they also take care of all the animals and sometimes but not always teach them tricks.
> 
> annnnd I think that's it. My uncle was a clown, so I learned this all from him years ago, so it's all as accurate as it can be. I also left this off at a weird place because I'm bad at thinking up pranks, and honestly nobody probably noticed when the pranks were pulled because so much weird shit happens with the circus that nobody's phased by nothing anymore.


	4. In the window of the tallest tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a little short, too, but no worries - we get to some longer chapters later. Plus, these are more snapshots into his life than they are tracking a whole plot, so I'll only include the stuff that feels right. Also, weirdly enough, I keep taking two year jumps, but that'll get a little longer in the last half.
> 
> But basically you can treat these all as one-shots in the same universe, just little snippets of stories that follow chronologically.
> 
> Also! Important! This Bucky is NOT James Barnes. This is Buck Chisholm, aka Trickshot, aka Clint's archery mentor

He finally got an act. Duquesne and Bucky had been training him together – or, well, complaining about their deal for joint custody and arguing over how the other was trying to teach him – for two years now, and he finally got himself an act. He was still one of the youngest artists at not-quite-fifteen, a fact that he was more than proud of. Even Barney had only got himself promoted to Boss Canvasman as he works his way up to making a picture gallery, one by one. He’d gotten his arms and chest covered with pictures now, stopping at a tattoo shop on every dukey-run, but he’d still have to get his calves, neck, hands, and part of his face before he’d be considered. Clint had no doubt he’d make it by the time he hit 19 in two years.

Regardless, it was the first of May, which meant it was his first run on the show. He’d be taking Angel’s slot, since she’d left at the last season’s end when she got an offer with Cirque du Soleil. Some thought she was a traitor, others couldn’t be happier for her, but everybody had an opinion. Clint knew that when you grew up the way they did, getting out was a dream come true if you could swing it. He was happy as all hell for her, not only because he got to steal her act.

Or, well, he got to steal half her act. He would start off with Bucky doing trick shots with him up high and Bucky on the dirt, then he’d do some roll-ups and other easy aerial tricks with added arrows, then get the fuck outta the way so the real flyers could get going on their jobs. He was small potatoes now, but his name was on the roster, which meant he had a chance. He even got a stage name and everything – The Amazing Hawkeye.

He was being marketed as a kid wonder, since he was on the smaller side, but he didn’t mind. He got his own named act, they could pitch him as a three-toed one-eyed freak of wonder if it meant he could get his name out there doing what he does best: wielding his bow.

“You ready, kid?”

Clint jumped up and down a little, shaking out his limbs. He’d practiced his spot forward and backward through all the winter months, he knew he could do it. He’d never done it with the lights and the crowd and the low rumble of noises before. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Piece of advice, then?” Bucky slung an arm over his shoulders, careful not to smear the glitter that Yolanda, the Human Pretzel, threw on him as he left her trailer. Bucky was a good foot taller and four inches wider than Clint, but it wasn’t intimidating any longer. It was like he had another big brother along with Barney. “Don’t think about the crowd. The lights’ll drown them out anyway, I guarantee you won’t see ‘em if you’re not looking. Hearing though, that’s a different story.”

Clint smirked. “Lucky for me, I’ve got the solution for that.” He reached up awkwardly around Bucky’s arm to click off his hearing aids. The sound of the crowd reacting to clowns’ tricks and antics shut off, leaving the vibrations in the dirt as his only indicator of what was happening.

He didn’t really need the aids to know what was happening in the show, though. After the years, the flow of the acts was ingrained into his mind, as easy as shooting a bow, now. One round of butchers and two light changes, then Bucky went out and Clint snuck off. Then it was just waiting for the spotlight sweep to find him up high and then he would start.

Bucky and him stood in silence until then. Clint was more than used to staying still in anticipation, but Bucky and Barney were the same, always moving, always twitching or talking or doing something. Just when it was starting to get on Clint’s nerves a little, Bucky’s cue came up.

He ruffled Clint’s hair a little before running out to the main ring, leaving Clint to take the corridor down to the other entrance to climb his way up to the high wire platform. He watched Bucky take his shots down below with ease, shooting into tiny targets in the stands and making precision shots while jumping through hoops. None were on fire, since the bows were wood, but the effect was still good.

The lights really did hide the crowd, especially this high up. All he could see was a vague shifting of the tide when a particular trick happened, and he felt the rumble in the platform when they were amazed or scared or astonished. It was easier to read them, up here. He had always preferred heights before, but now all he wanted was to stay up here forever, watching the ebb and flow of the crowd reacting to the acts. It was mesmerizing.

He watched Bucky finish his set, making some big exaggerated bows. That was Clint’s cue.

He lit a match and set up the head of an arrow, nocking it. He wasn’t worried if people’s eyes were drawn to the light, they’d see it in a second anyways. Clint drew his string back, aimed right for Bucky’s head, then three…two…release.

There was a sharp vibration sound travelling through the creaky wooden platform. Gasps. He missed Bucky’s head by an inch when he bent in a bow, exactly as planned. The spotlights shot up to Clint on the platform, and he grinned.

He was never going to get tired of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so circus glossary in order of appearance:  
> dukey-runs are any show in one place that runs longer than just an overnight haul.
> 
> boss canvasman picks out and directs set up for the lot that the tents and the midway go up on. It's a hugely important job, so good for Barney!
> 
> picture gallery is the tattooed man, plain and simple. They can be midway attractions or, more often, do any number of simpler acts just because they look cooler than the average artist to the general public.
> 
> roll ups are simple aerial acts, flyers are aerialists or anyone who does work above ground in the tent. Technically Clint could be classified as such, but no one would call him that regularly.
> 
> butchers are the candy and popcorn peddlers, and their order for concessions is very specific, so it's an easy way to tell where you are, timewise, in the show by seeing how many times the butchers have come out and what they're peddling.
> 
> and that's it! Like I said, another short one, but I know that if I let myself talk too much about the circus stuff I'll never shut up, so if I were to go into that it would be a whole other fic.


	5. Beside the lions and the ladies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> getting back into the slightly longer bits, and next chapter is even longer, so strap yourselves in, kids.  
> Also, for those keeping track, Clint is 22 here.

They left him.

They tried to fucking kill him and they left him, and there was nothing left for him but pain and betrayal. Sure, they were all objectively shitty people, but he wouldn’t have told, honest. He just had a bad habit of looking up to people that hurt him in the end, that’s all.

First Jacques and Barney were knocking over banks, then when he tried to get them to stop they threw him off the goddamn high rise. Then Bucky brought him back, helped him out, started him on gigs. Clint swore he didn’t know it was Barney, he didn’t realize till the guy fell with an arrow in his back, fell with his face towards Clint with that scrunched up _I’m not hurtin’ I promise_ look that he’d seen a million times before when Barney’d put himself between Clint and their dad.

He swore he didn’t mean to kill him, he was his _brother_ , but Trickshot didn’t care about that. Clint didn’t go through with the job, so he got himself stuck to a tree by an arrow through his shoulder and a promise that if he didn’t die there, he would soon. It didn’t even matter, all he could see was Barney’s face, the blood, the pain in his own chest as soon as he realized that he was a _murderer_ and his first victim was his _own brother_ and he couldn’t – he didn’t –

He jerked awake to a slap to the face to find a ghostly figure framed with fire staring hard into his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d woken her up with his night terrors. He doubted it would be the last.

She didn’t have nightmares as often, or at least he hadn’t caught them. He did know from the one time he actually was awake that she went deathly still, only the slight moving of her lips indicating she was still alive and breathing.

Regardless, they were both awake now because of him and his unresolved shit. “Sorry, Tasha. I know you need your sleep.” It was always weird talking when he couldn’t hear himself, but he knew from experience that sleeping with hearing aids in was a Bad Idea.

Natasha shook her head lightly, with as little malice as she could muster. She was always softer when he had his ears out, since she knew he was relying on body language only. It was a little creepy, but that was mostly outweighed by the breathtaking beauty she had when she added that little bit of softness to her eyes. He wondered sometimes if that’s what she would have looked like if she didn’t go through…whatever shit she went through that she refused to tell him.

She reached over to the nightstand and grabbed one of his aids, waiting patiently as he put it in. “You scream a lot about this Barney man. Do you want to talk about it?”

Her slight Russian accent slipped in at the end, something that only happened when she was comfortable or overtired or both. He felt so goddamn privileged to be able to hear it at all.

“It won’t help. This isn’t something you can talk out.”

She shrugged. “You can try?”

Clint shook his head. Trickshot only left him a little over a year ago, and he had only gotten back into fighting form six months ago. It was too fresh to dredge all that up again. “What about I tell you a story, instead? About someone I used to know a lifetime ago.”

The lines around her mouth softened only slightly. She rested her head on his chest and settled in. She told him she slept like that because the density of his pecs reminded her of the pillows back home, which he still couldn’t figure out if that was a compliment or an insult. Either way, he knew she like to sleep like that because he was warm, and the rumble of his words in his chest made her remember what it was like to not be alone for once.

He knew what it looked like, by the way. And no, they weren’t together, Clint swore on his life. As much as he was known as a ladykiller, he wasn’t too interested in killers who were ladies, and 2, he was pretty sure she didn’t even know what a relationship was. Outside of honeypot missions, he was almost positive she had never even experienced any kid of close relationship with anyone.

They only did this when they were both already in the same town, usually with the same mark. They would leave a drop somewhere they knew the other would find it, then meet up the night before at the same hotel to sleep – just sleep – together, their one night of comfort every few weeks. Then they woke up, discussed the plan, then one of them would kill the mark while the other sent the proof to both their employers. There was no downside for either of them, really. Tasha enjoyed the killing in some weird way, so that was mostly her thing, and Clint got credit for the job regardless. That, and he got to spend time with someone he was pretty sure wasn’t looking to put his head on a stake. At least like, 70% sure.

“So there was this chick, at least eight or nine years ago,” Clint started, threading his fingers through Tasha’s hair like she liked, “Called Angel. And damn, did she live up to her name.”

\--

He woke this time from a dreamless sleep to another slap on the face. Tasha was already dressed and ready, standing over him with a sour look on her face.

“You’re a terrible assassin. I could have killed you a hundred different ways by now without even leaving this room.” Her accent was wiped away, along with all the softness in her face. He knew she was joking, though. Or, at least, he liked to think so. “Also, you snore.”

Clint rubbed absently at the back of his neck. “Only a hundred, Tasha? You’re getting rusty.”

She rolled her eyes and threw a bagel at his bare chest. He hadn’t even noticed she had gotten breakfast. Maybe he was getting a little lax, but he also knew that if she wanted to kill him, any amount of preparation wouldn’t mean jackcrap. “Get dressed. I need you for my cover.”

Right, they were in Pakistan. Normally cool, if it wasn’t July, which meant Ramadan, which meant overeager priests or whatnot cracking down on the mere sight of women. Gross.

Clint got up slowly, making a big show out of stretching the way the contortionists taught him long ago. Natasha just stared at him with a blank look.

“You’re not fooling me, missy. I know if your robot programming allowed you to be happy that you would be smiling right now, or really all the time. I mean, look at me!” He gestured to his whole, uncovered body. “I’m fucking hot, and funny, and an all around riot.”

Tasha just threw a linen shirt at his face. “My programming allows me to be happy. It just stops me from being fooled by mislead boyish charm.”

“Ah ha! That was a joke, it had to be.”

“Says you. There’s no proof I’m not a robot.”

Clint pulled the shirt down over his ears and grabbed some pants, debating going commando. The pants were kinda translucent though. “I’ve seen you bleed before, Tasha.”

“That could have been anticipated and accounted for in the construction of my android body.”

He decided against commando. “And that’s where you’re wrong, Tasha. Androids and robots are _not_ the same, so obviously you’re bluffing.” He took a big bite out of his bagel and looked up to where she was standing, her own breakfast now missing from her hand. How the hell had she eaten that so fast while talking without him noticing?

“Or my programmers were intelligent enough to feed me incorrect information to through nerds like you off the trail.”

Clint thought about that for a second. She was right, they absolutely could do that, especially if they were one of those Tony Stark level geniuses. He was pretty sure there was none of those left now, though, after Stark got kidnapped and probably killed at that thing in Afghanistan a few months ago. “Okay, fine, you got me. You’re an emotionless, lying, android woman. Does that make you feel better?”

“Yes, yes it does.”

\--

Clint was well aware he was an assassin, all right, but that didn’t mean he liked killing. Technically he wasn’t even an assassin, just a mercenary. Killing wasn’t always in the job description – he’d had a nice job last week that only included light dismemberment.

But as much as he’d tortured and killed and done bad illegal things to other human beings, nothing he ever did could hold a candle to the great Black Widow. She killed three grown men using her thighs – he was pretty sure it was a game she played with herself, using only one method on certain missions just to test herself – while wearing a shalwar kameez and a headscarf. The kicker was, he never once saw any skin.

Most people don’t realize how much skill it takes to choke out a grown man between your thighs while dodging two other men all while not letting any hair fall from her scarf, but Clint did. So he could be excused at least a little for taking a second to help her out and take out the other four guys that were pretending to be sneaky behind the slatted wooden door. Clint pulled out his handgun and got off four perfect headshots. Luckily he’d tacked on the silencer before they’d left the hotel, otherwise they’d have had a gang war on their hands.

Natasha disposed of the last man, slitting his throat to make sure he was dead before he got up and dusted herself off. “Well that was fun.”

Clint smirked. Then he saw the crowd of angry men gathering in the distance. “Yeah, I think we might wanna get the fuck out of here.”

Tasha glanced back, even though he was pretty sure she couldn’t see as far as he did. She nodded regardless, fixing her sash quickly.

With zero warning she took Clint’s hand and pulled hard, dragging him into a small corridor that was laced above them with laundry lines. Clint dug in his heels and pulled her back, pointing up.

“Nobody ever looks up.”

She rolled her eyes, but let go of his wrist, trusting him. He climbed up the walls easily, grabbing on to windowsills and using his outstretched arms to push him up in places where the buildings leaned in close enough. He only spared an occasional glance below him – he knew Natasha could handle a low climb like this.

He pulled himself up onto a rooftop, accidentally knocking over what looked to be a lemon tree on a balcony on his way up. When no angry gardener came bursting out, he laid down on his back, looking up at the blue sky above, safe as he could be for the moment. Tasha surfaced only a few seconds after, assessing the situation in the blink of an eye.

She didn’t even ask about the lemon tree spilling dirt everywhere before she lied down next to him. He could almost pretend they were just friends, staring up at the clouds together, trying to guess their shapes.

“Hey, so.” He started, shoving a hand underneath his neck for a little support – his entire back still got stiff too easy after his hundred-foot drop. “You wanna go get a drink after this? I'm totally legal now."

He counted himself the luckiest guy on Earth when Natasha honest-to-god chuckled. This was the best birthday he'd had in a long time.


	6. Running in circles 'round the well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually the second chapter I wrote for this fic, or well the first full chapter. I wrote the maps scene before anything, then this in its entirety, then I circled back to finish the rest (mostly) chronologically.
> 
> But anyway, this is where we get into known territory a little bit more, with another familiar supporting character.
> 
> As always, enjoy!
> 
> P.S. Congrats on the Hugo Nomination, guys! We all help keep this site running and producing awesome content, so we all contributed to the nomination. Take a second and pat yourself on the back, y'all, you deserve it.

He hated suits with a burning passion. Now he wasn’t talking the clothes – he could rock a black tie with the best of them – but the men in them. The alphabet soup men that thought they could catch him and…well he didn’t know exactly what they wanted with him but he was sure it wasn’t gonna be good. Kill as many guys as he did and nobody government wanted you for your morality. He did try to make a habit of only killing bad guys whenever his bank account was fat enough to turn down a few shady jobs, but stuff like that didn’t matter to suits. All they cared about were the guys he did knock and his “blatant disregard for the law.” So when he saw a middle aged white-bread looking dude taking a lot of glances towards the rooftops while Clint was staking out his next hit, he didn’t wait for the guy to see him.

Clint was gonna lose his target, but that was alright. He had enough stashed away that he could afford to delay the job a few days, and since he hadn’t tipped the target off there was low chance of her going underground quick enough that Clint couldn’t catch her.

No, his only priority was losing the suit. Given he was still on the ground while Clint was up high, he had a pretty good chance of that, he thought as he flicked his hearing aids back on quickly.

Unless, of course, there was a helicopter speeding towards him. Goddamnit.

It wasn’t like he could hide up there, his bright purple outfit would be a dead giveaway. Why he let Tasha convince him to revive the old circus garb, he would never know. Something about a calling card or whatever. Wasn’t very helpful now.

His only options then were to either take his chances and run into a building from their rooftop stairs and hope they miscalculate which building he’s in, or jump down to the street below and try to outrun the suit. Given he was twice Clint’s age, chances were much better down low, despite his misgivings. If there was one thing he hated, it was giving up the high ground, but here he had no choice.

He jumped down onto the nearest fire escape, using and abusing muscles he hadn’t stretched in quite a while to swing down almost as fast as gravity would take him. It had been sprinkling all day, so the rungs were slippery as hell, but he made it down without too many bruises. He dropped down gracefully, thankful for the solid concrete beneath him, and took off in a new direction with a push.

There were dogs down the alley, barking and jumping in the shallow puddles, and it took everything in him to not stop to pet the good boys. So good, much pet. He honestly would have stopped for a half second if he didn’t feel the suit gaining on him, bursting out from around the corner like a bat out of hell. This was going to be a closer chase than he thought.

He didn’t think the guy would have been so fucking jazzed about a high-speed footrace down a seedy alley in the rain, it would totally ruin the nice clean suit look he had going on, but then again, he’d seen weirder people do worse shit. After watching a drunken clown try to adopt a raccoon in broad daylight and feed it cupcakes, nothing was really that surprising anymore.

The suit kept up admirably, taking all of Clint’s twists and turns in stride, even when the clouds decided it would be an awesome time to let loose and pound the world below with sheets of rain, making his hearing aids static and fizzle out. The only saving grace was that he was sure the suit could barely see two feet in front of him. Luckily for Clint, this neighborhood seemed familiar, though he didn't stop too long to wonder why. Probably just someplace he’d fostered at before, years ago, or maybe a town he’d plastered with posters in his early days in the circus. Either way, he had the definite advantage here.

He made a few more turns before skidding out onto the street, collapsing his bow and slinging his quiver around to sit low in front of him so he would make a harder target to spot. People tended to underestimate how much a silhouette changed your perception of someone, and as someone who relied on seeing silhouettes in a crowd for a large part of his act in the circus, Clint knew exactly how to exploit that.

He walked past a few people running for cover, but most either had umbrellas or toughed it out like him. When the rain was this heavy it didn’t really matter if you’d been out for two seconds or two hours, the result was about the same.

Sure he had lost the suit, he spent some time looking around at the buildings on the street. He hadn’t really had the time nor the inclination before, only checking to see which had the best vantage point to see his target, but now that he slowed down and actually looked he realized quickly why it was all so familiar.

He was standing in front of a church with big white gates out front, supposed to be the gates of heaven, he supposed, but now they were rusted and painted over sloppily. The church was called St. Peter’s, he knew without reading. There used to be an orphanage inside, home to only a few boys that hadn’t been fostered or sent off to group homes yet. This was where he spent his first night away from home, and quite a few after that. Finding a place that would take in a deaf kid and his brother took a long while, and this was his and Barney’s first stop of many.

Barney’s name hadn’t crossed his mind in a long while, and he almost let himself wonder why. It had been years since the incident, and Clint had finally forgiven himself for what he did. He knew, without a doubt, that Barney would have done the same thing, but only would have felt half as bad. That was the only consolation he could really get for killing his murderer brother.

He felt more than heard the suit come up behind him.

There was a gun to the back of his head, close enough he felt it which meant it was close enough for him to take it before the suit could get a shot off. Then he saw a van screech to a stop on the nearest corner, unloading more than a few bodies with heavy boots.

Well, shit.

\--

“My name is Agent Phil Coulson.” The white bread suit said with measured words. Up close it was easier to see the details Clint hadn’t bothered to pick up from his perch. Not that he couldn’t have analyzed his face from that far, he just didn’t think it was going to come in handy since he was for sure going to lose him. Serves him right for being so cocky, he guessed.

The agent was older than he’d first guessed, or maybe younger? It was hard to gauge what was age and what was stress of the job. He couldn’t be too old with the muscles bending the lines of his suit just slightly and the way he could more than keep up in a chase, but the lines and wrinkles on his face said otherwise. That, and the unfortunate receding hairline.

“Are you going to tell me your name or am I going to have to make one up myself?” Agent Coulson asked, raising an eyebrow. Clint must have been silent longer than he thought. Time kinda got screwy for him after a dozen years of sitting on rooftops for hours on end.

“You can keep on calling me Hawkeye, thanks.”

Agent Coulson sighed. This wasn’t an interrogation room, he couldn’t very well make a scene. Which, actually, was probably why he’d brought Clint to a diner in the first place, to keep him in check at least a little by the way of social obligations. Funny, he thought an ex-carny cared at all what regular diner-goers thought.

Unfortunately, Clint had had the foresight to subtly switch out his shot to hell hearing aids with a backup pair, so it wasn't like he could ignore the guy. Either sit and hear him out of make a scene and dip and just hope to hell that all the drones from the kidnapping had skedaddled back home by now. With Clint's luck, that was less than likely.

“That’s not going to work. How about I call you…Barney. It fits, with the horrifyingly purple costume and green bruises.”

Clint went cold. “Don’t call me that.” That was twice in one day he was reminded of his dead brother. Sure, he was murderous, conniving scum, but he was still Clint’s brother. Plus, he was dead. Apparently, you weren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, not that he’d ever cared.

“You have to give me something to go on, here. I’m not calling you by your circus-handle-slash-mercenary-callsign.”

“Carson is fine.” It was his go-to fake name. He was well-used to responding whenever he heard it after both his circus and mercenary days, and it wasn’t like he’d ever forget it.

Agent Coulson looked less than impressed. “Your old circus boss is dead now, believe it or not. Nice of you to keep his name alive all these years.”

Clint wasn’t sure if this guy was meaning to press all his buttons or not, but he sure was doing a great job of it either way. He probably thought Clint had no idea what happened to the Fancy Pants, he was off the headlining roster for a year or so before all of that went down. Poor Agent Coulson was probably trying to probe for information, see how on the pulse of circus gossip he still was (not at all) or if he still kept in touch with Jacques and his crew (hard nope). He probably thought that Jacques or Bucky or Barney killed Carson. He had no goddamn idea that Clint was the one who did it.

“Sure, the man was such a fucking upstanding guy, why wouldn’t I want to keep up his legacy?”

Agent Coulson clenched his jaw at the overt sarcasm. Even the man’s reactions were painstakingly bland. “Why do you think I’m here, _Carson_?”

Clint shrugged, allowing the man his obvious topic change. He’d let him lead the conversation for a bit, or at least try to. That wasn’t to mean he was going to make it easy for the man. “Oh, well, I was under the impression that y’all’re just very dedicated, well-armed Jehovah’s Witnesses here to inform me on the current status of our lord and savior Jesus Christ.” He put on an overly exaggerated look of confusion, eyes too wide and mouth open but covered with a stiff hand. “Is that _not_ what this is? Are you actually Mormons instead, because butter my butt and call me a biscuit that would just be the surprise of the year.”

The Southern accent might have been a little much, but ever since he saw one of those daily desk calendars with that phrase plastered on it next to a cartoon of a jean-covered ass with a slab of butter on it, it had been stuck in his head. He had been waiting years for the right opportunity, and if pissing off Mr. Saltine Cracker here didn’t qualify, then what would?

Agent Coulson, for his credit, didn’t react in the slightest. “We’re not with your regular letter men, FBI, CIA, NSA, etc.” He leaned forward, hands pressed flat on the formica table. “I’m with an agency called SHIELD, which stands for Strategic, Homeland –“

“Intervention, Enforcement, Logistics Division, yeah I know.” Cling rolled it out quickly. If the Agent had been enunciating any slower they both would have died of old age before he finished. “I’m a gun-for-hire, doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Well, technically a bow-and-arrow-for-hire, but that’s not the point.”

Agent Coulson injected some emotion into his face, finally, even if it looked uncomfortably like it was the first time he had ever used his face to express anything, ever. “That _is_ the point, Carson. You’re the only sniper in the world that uses and bow and arrow, and there’s advantages to that that us at SHIELD would very much like to help you realize. With you on our side as an agent, we’ll be happy to help you achieve anything you can dream of related to your particular style of fighting.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“Well, not many people have experience fighting or defending against someone with such a unique weapon, so that would definitely give us an advantage in practically any job we send you out for. That, and your eyes are by far the best in the business. Not many people can see and react to a helicopter that’s over a mile away.”

Clint leaned back in the booth, holding back a wince at the sharp screeching noise the plastic made against his leather outfit. Actual working hearing aids were both a blessing and a curse. Mostly a curse, though. “I’m not going to be strictly allowed to say no, am I?”

“Not unless you want to be hunted down by all of SHIELD’s impressive resources, no.”

God, Clint hated suits. “Well then I guess you know my answer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually did own a "butter my butt and call me a biscuit" calendar, exactly as described, with a new fun phrase for each day of 2012. That was an...interesting year for me. But rest assured, it's hilarious and Clint would abso-fucking-lutely buy it and use every phrase.
> 
> Also this was already written, I just haven't had the brain space to look it back over and post it, but the rest of this fic is not. Luckily for y'all, I'm off school in two or so weeks, and I just love procrastinating my final projects/portfolios, so hopefully the last two chapters translate themselves from my brain to the page nicely.


	7. But never meant to last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Black Widow is a threat, and SHIELD sees the perfect opportunity in their new recruit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one went in slightly a different direction from where I wanted it - whenever I write Natasha she always tends to direct my scenes wherever she wants it - but it turned out all the better for it, I think.  
> Also sorry for the long wait, senior year of university is killer. But! I just posted the last chapter as well so this work is officially complete!

“First solo assignment.” Coulson dropped the file down on the cafeteria table in front of Clint’s uneaten lunch. He looked down at the pile of mystery meat with a bland expression. “Pretty exciting day for you.”

Clint scoffed. “Sure, I’m really moving up in the world.”

He’d gone from living the high life – making his own hours, getting enough cash in one day to cover rent for the year – to being stuck with a team of green as grass rookies who’d barely touched a gun before. _It’s a great way to show your leadership_ , Coulson said, but they both knew he was lying through his teeth. The head honchos just wanted to take him down a peg or two, make sure he knew that illegal = bad. Or, well, only when it wasn’t on official SHIELD orders, then it was fine.

“Don’t get too excited. This was really the only option they had.” Coulson sat down carefully across from him at the table, unbuttoning his jacket like a fancy person with fancy tailored suits.

Clint flipped open the file with the end of his fork, nibbling at his mystery meat as he read. Who was he to pass up free food, even if it did look suspiciously like the fried rat Tasha had suckered him into eating in Morocco. He didn’t even get four lines in when he realized the blurry, half-obscured picture paperclipped to the corner was a little too familiar for his liking. Speak of the fucking devil. “Romanova?”

“They want you to use your previous relationship to get her to trust you. Then, when she’s…vulnerable, you take her out.” Coulson showed the slightest bit of a blush on his normally expressionless face. Him and Tasha would probably get along great, if he wasn’t trying to get her killed and all. Or, honestly, maybe still. That was kind of how she met Clint.

Clint hummed, swallowing his food. It actually wasn’t half bad. Better than the tube steaks they served at Carson’s pie car. “The Black Widow is never vulnerable.”

“We’re not asking you to kill the Black Widow. We’re asking you to take out the woman that stands as a threat to our security and your own position in SHIELD – Natasha.”

“ _Natalia_ Romanova,” he corrected – Clint was allowed to call her Tasha, but that was a special case; Coulson hadn’t earned that trust yet, “is never vulnerable either. They trained that out of her a longass time ago.”

Coulson raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

Clint pushed away his lunch. He wasn’t all that hungry anymore. “Meaning, the Soviets had their own supersoldiers in the war. Except they knew better than to make only one that dove straight into the ocean on a bad call.” He got up and all but ran out of the cafeteria, leaving a confused Coulson in his wake.

\--

He left the message at a drop that night. They had more than just physical drops, in case it was only a quick job, and Clint made sure that he’d plugged the right numbers into their code like eight times. He wouldn’t want to leave a vaguely threatening message on just any message board, now would he?

Her response only took an hour. Decoding it back, the message was clear. _Meet up now, NYC, Stark Tower_. He’d really hoped his stupid word thing in his brain was acting up again and he got that wrong, but nope. Stark fucking Tower. Great.

At least he knew where SHIELD stored their extra penguin suits.

\--

He really hated when she did this to him. Not only was it Stark _fucking_ Tower, the building with the absolute best security in the world, but it was also a black tie event. With a guest list.

Fuck you, Tasha.

“Hey now, is that any way to speak to a lady?” He flinched and spun around. He hadn’t even realized he’d signed that, his hands were just too fluttery to stay still.

But Tasha, oh Tasha. Hot damn, she looked gorgeous – enough to get him to reconsider his stance on dating lady killers. Her hair was long now, loose fiery waves spilling down to her bust that was almost indecently exposed. The slutty yet somehow weirdly classy dress was a deep night blue, glitter like stars dancing in the light. There was also, he guessed, no back. Where she kept her guns in outfits like this, he may never know.

“Tasha, you look…” He rubbed the back of his neck, ducking his head. “You look like a dominatrix on her night off. Or, better yet, a sexy assassin who’s got knives shoved up her-“

“Clint.” She crossed her arms, the gesture somewhere in the space between angry and flattered. She always appreciated his more creative compliments.

“Yes, love of my life?”

A small smile flashed for just a second on her painted lips. “I’ve missed you.”

It had been years since they’d last seen each other. He hoped she’d assumed he dropped out of the game – it wasn’t like he liked doing it that much anyway – and just cut his losses, or maybe found someone worth living for. Anything but the truth. “I’ve missed you too, Tasha.”

“The name’s Natalie.” She slid into a posture that was somehow both bashful and professional, yet Clint couldn’t pinpoint anything different. That had always weirded him out, it was like she was a snake shedding invisible skin, or melting into a whole new person. He wondered if any of her personas were actually real. “Natalie Rushman.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll be… Curt Bartley.” She’d taught him long ago that the best cover names sounded like someone misheard you at a Starbucks and wrote down whatever kinda fit. That way you’d respond to it, but nobody would put two and two together. Plus, it wasn’t like he could keep using Carson for the rest of his life, he had to switch it up sometimes. “Vineyard owner and professional asshole that definitely wants to sleep with the slutty secretary on her night off.”

Tasha rolled her eyes. “I’m actually a slutty _lawyer_ on her night off.” She corrected, striding quickly away from him towards the pseudo red carpet in front of the Tower. “And normal people don’t recount their life in the parking lot.” She threw back over her shoulder, her head turned just enough that he could read her lips if he needed to. He didn’t need her to, SHIELD gave him fancy schmancy invisible hearing aids better than he could ever get on his own as soon as they figured out he was deaf. It took them almost 3 months.

He jogged to catch up to Tasha, adjusting his suit as he did to make sure all the lines sat like they should. He wasn’t even exactly sure what that phrase meant, but Coulson said it once about his fancy tailored outfit, so Clint knew it meant something suit wearing people would know.

“You can’t stay attached to my hip the whole night, Curt,” Tasha said almost sternly, “I do have a married man to seduce.”

Clint shrugged. “Nobody pays attention to the gay best friend.”

Tasha looked at him long and hard, slowing her walk just slightly. “I didn’t think you were that good at acting.”

“Who said I’m acting?” Clint crossed his arms, dramatically defensive. “I have depths, Ms. Rushman. Depths.”

She just rolled her eyes and kept moving, passing by the guards with ease. Clint made himself as unremarkable as possible, letting the guards assume he was Ms. Rushman’s plus one. Luckily for him, as big as his shoulders and arms have gotten, he had never truly shaken the ability to seem small when the situation called for it. That’s what happens when you have to hide in between the frozen carcasses in the back of a butcher shop for half your childhood. That and a real aversion to rare burgers.

“So why are you here?” Tasha asked as she spun around, grabbing a champagne flute from a harried looking servant as she passed. He should definitely have tried to fit in as a servant, instead. Stark screened them pretty well, but SHIELD taught him some tricks about sneaking into secure lists. He’d be found out eventually, if he was looked at too closely, but it would have worked. Then again, he wouldn’t have had the chance to actually spend time with Tasha, and in a dress like this that would have been a damn shame. That, and it was rare he'd gotten an opportunity to brush elbows with a different kind of clown, ones who hid blackmail up their sleeves instead of scarves. A whole new circus to learn.

“It’s my night off.”

Tasha gave him a hard look. “I thought you retired. I haven’t seen your particular fingerprint around lately.”

Clint shrugged. “I’ve switched it up a little bit. Started taking classes.” He knew better than to lie to the Black Widow. Half-truths and omissions, that was their language. Always had been.

“What, you going to community college now?” The ‘you can barely read’ was implied. She had figured out far too easily how hard words were for him.

“Archery classes, some basic programming.” Clint stole a stuffed mushroom off a platter and shoved it in his mouth, almost forgetting to swallow before opening his mouth again. Fancy people didn’t talk with their mouths full. “I like to show off sometimes. Plus it’s nice to try and see if there’s any competition out there.”

Tasha hummed. “Is there?”

“Nope.” He shrugged. “It’s honestly starting to get kind of boring.”

She glanced at him for only a second, but he knew she was trying her best to read into his words. Understand everything that went unsaid. “You’ve gone legit.”

Clint swore under his breath. “I thought I’d at least get a dance with you before you figured it out.”

She laughed like he’d said something funny, leaning in close with her hips first. She tilted her head up to whisper in his ear and allow him to see her lips at the same time. God, he loved her. “You were sent to kill me.”

He laughed back, loud and fake and drunk-sounding, placing a hand on her hip. “Soon.” He leaned in to whisper back. “This is an unofficial tap. You’ve got three days until my mission. If you pack up and run, no big loss for either of us. If we have to go toe to toe, though…we both know there’s no happy ending there.”

“Happy endings are for fairy tales.” She bit her lip, letting her cover slide just enough for him to get a glance at what lied underneath. Confidence, sure, but also a hint of hesitation. “You warned me. You wouldn’t have it in you to kill me.”

With anyone else he would lie, say it would be just like any other hit. Tasha wasn’t just anyone. “No, I don’t have it in me. But the next person will, and the one after that.” He sighed, hanging his head just a little lower, talking just a little softer. “This group, Tasha. They’re after people like us. We pose a real threat to regular everyday people. I know we only take the right jobs, but nobody else knows that. We _kill people_ for a living, Tasha. You don’t just get away with that.”

“So, what? You’re saying they’ll never stop? It’s inevitable?”

Clint frowned at her. “I’m saying you’ve only got a few options, here. You can stick around, doing what you do, and hope they don’t send anyone that can take you, hope you don’t have an off day. Option two, you could get out of here, fuck off to some other country halfway around the globe where their reach is a little looser and hope they don’t care enough to follow. Or, option three.”

“Do what you did. Get converted to their cause.”

“They’re not bad people, Tasha.” He rubbed a hand over her shoulder, a more honest gesture. “They’ve got their agendas, yeah, but I still have freedom. I can leave, if I want. I start killing again and they’ll come after me, but I don’t have to stay if I don’t want to.”

“They’re amassing an army of killers and mercenaries. They have an agenda.”

Clint shrugged. She had a point. “As far as I can tell, they’re just trying to point us all in the right direction, away from people who don’t deserve it.”

Her eyes suddenly caught his, gaze icy. “And how do they know who deserves it?”

“They do their research, just like us.” He tried to convey with more than words his trust in them, but he was never as good at it as she was. “They want us to keep doing what we’re doing, just with more safeguards to make damn well sure that our target is the right one. That we’re not having the wool pulled over our eyes.”

“I can do that on my own.” She pulled back, arms crossed over her chest. “I don’t need a baby sitter.”

Oh, right. She’d had a watcher her whole life with the Red Room, making sure she never stepped out of place. Freedom was the one thing she had truly earned for herself. “Not a baby sitter. A support system. A net to catch you when you fall. Someone to make you legit, get you out of a bad situation, have your back.”

“Like you.”

Clint nodded. “Like me.”

She looked out to the crowd in the center of the floor, tensing slightly enough he wasn’t sure anyone else would recognize it. She found her mark. “I’ll let you know.”

He forced a smile. He did the best he could. “Be sure that you do.”

\--

“Status report, Barton.”

Clint flinched at the harsh voice in his ear. Normally Coulson was nice and mellow, but this mission must have had him freaking out. That, and Clint wasn’t too used to hearing people directly in his ear. It was a little unnerving.

“No change, sir. I’m still in my perch, bow still at the ready, still no sign of the target.”

“Keep me updated.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I will if anything ever happens.”

There was a huff on the other line before the sound cut out. He’d been out here for hours, now, and there was little hope Tasha would show for her job. She’d probably taken off like a bat out of hell like he’d suggested. Good, that was good. She’d be fine, out there on her own. She’d done it before and she would do it again. He had just hoped she’d trust him enough to stick around.

Or maybe she did. “Target spotted.”

Her particular shade of red was hard to miss. She had a hat on, a jacket with the hood halfway up, skinny jeans and too big sneakers. Too big to run in. The outfit was a little too eerily similar to the one she’d worn when they’d first crossed paths, going after the same dirty accountant. She’d always preferred to walk in, easier to hide in plain sight. He’d never been so tactful, much preferring shooting from a distance. It made a lot of noise, sure, but by the time anyone figured out where he was, he was already long gone. It was safer.

The coincidence was too planned. The guy she was after was in the mob, this wasn’t the outfit she normally would have chosen. Not outside of the hipster parts of town. This was the seedy downtown alleys – she didn’t look out of place necessarily, but she didn’t fit in seamlessly either. Her outfit was too new. She was trying to stand out.

“Take the shot when clear.”

Right, they’d decided he should snipe today. Well, fuck what they decided. “I’m moving in. Target’s MO says she scanned the rooftops. She’s waiting for me.”

He hated using such clinical tactical language when talking about her. His best friend wasn’t a _target_.

There was too long a pause on the other end of the line. “Clear to approach.”

Awesome.

He took the fire escape down as quickly as he could, skipping steps whenever possible. Once he hit street level, he burst out into the main street, not caring who saw. She wasn’t on mission, or she’d already finished it, so it didn’t matter as much if she was made. Plus, he always stood out worse when he tried to fit in.

She was only a block ahead, so he took it at a jog. He caught up to her at the crosswalk, barely breathing heavy. “Hey gorgeous.”

She spared him only a passing glance before crossing the street, disappearing into an alleyway. God, he hoped he was right and not about to be murdered between her thighs. At least it wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

She was leaning on the wall, arms crossed when he followed her in. “How much do you trust them, really?”

Right, okay, another test. Fair.

He racked his brain for what he could possibly do to make her believe him. Then it hit him: she knew all his weaknesses, she could kill him six ways to Sunday in a minute not only because of her skill, but because of all the information she’d squirrelled away about him over the years. But there was one thing she had never been able to get from him. Something he knew haunted her ever since he uttered the name.

He reached up, not letting his hands shake, and took his hearing aids out of his ears. He hated being vulnerable like this, taking away one of his major senses, but he trusted her. He just hoped she trusted him.

“I’m trying my best to do right, Tasha.” He held out the aids in one hand. She took them carefully. “Barney’s not just a man. He was a target.”

She opened her mouth, probably to reply that yes, she already knew that, but he cut her off.

“He was a target, but what I didn’t know was that he was my brother. Or, well, I knew he was my brother, but not what he was involved with. I was tasked with taking out a rival group, that’s all. He got an arrow through the back, a lot of them did, and then…” Clint swallowed, clenching his jaw. Now was not the time to get emotional. “Then I saw his face.”

Tasha put his hearing aids in her pocket, bringing her hands up in front of her. _The other recruits,_ she signed – he didn’t even know she knew how, _they were like my sisters._

“This is how I repent, Tasha. This is how I tip back the scales.”

She paused a moment, weighing her words. This time she spoke. “You’ve got red in your ledger.” He nodded. She moved closer, placing his hearing aids back in his palm. “So do I.”

That wasn’t a promise, but it might as well have been one. She didn’t move while he stuck his aids back in his ears just in time to hear Coulson mid-rant.

“-not refuse to respond during a mission, do you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I read you.” Clint looked Tasha in the eyes, finding the last bit of reassurance he needed there. “There’s been a change of plans.”


	8. Finally, all my uphill crawling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this one is kinda short but I'm a sucker for short and sweet endings, so here we are. Hope y'all enjoyed!

“You know,” Clint let his head fall into Tasha’s lap as the rest of the group bickered around them about what takeout to get. “As weird as it sounds, this lot makes growing up in a circus seem practically boring.”

She laughed and ran her fingers through his hair. She laughed so much more easily, lately. “Think about it. You’re the only normal human here.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but, well, she was right, wasn’t she? Steve was a literal lab experiment from the 1940’s, Thor was apparently an ancient Norse God, Tasha was poked and prodded and probably injected with a million chemicals as a kid – not to mention the years of intense and painful training, Bruce turned into a giant rage monster, and Tony was, well, Tony. Clint was just a guy who got really good at using a paleolithic era weapon.

“I think this is the only group in existence where I’m the most normal person.”

Tasha shrugged. “I don’t know, Fury and Coulson have some pretty interesting stuff in their pasts. Did he ever tell you how he lost his eye?”

“Just some bullshit about trusting someone.”

She smiled that tiny secret smile that only popped up when she knew something ridiculous that you would barely believe. She tapped him on the head prompting him to sit up a bit before signing. _He was scratched by an alien cat when he was fighting for the cube alongside a lesbian that can punch stars._

Clint rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just making shit up.”

“I saw the file.” She moved his head back down to her lap. He thought it might be soothing, to her, to run her hands through his hair. Proof they were both there and okay and alive or something like that. “Ask him one day about Carol Danvers. It’s funny to watch his eye twitch.”

Oh, he was definitely going to mention that at the most inopportune moment.

He let his head fall to the side, watching Tony make wide gestures as he yelled at Steve about pineapple on pizza. Bruce was quietly sipping his tea off to the side, but Clint knew he was waiting to add in the perfect comment at just the right time to rile them up even more. Thor was acting clueless – which only fooled Tony and Steve, the rest of them knew he was one of the smartest on the team – and asking what pizza was and why fruit didn’t go on it because wasn’t tomato a fruit anyhow?

It reminded him of the good days, back with the company. With Eugene the Tall Man going out of his way to step straight over people and get them all flustered and Bucky – which apparently Steve had a Bucky too, wasn’t that weird – throwing playing cards so they stuck into the trees and tables and random targets he’d scattered around. And Barney, challenging everyone to an arm wrestle – only half of the people let him win, the other half beat him handily until he grew into his shoulders and beat them all back – making sure to rope Clint into conversations, doing stupid parlor tricks he’d picked up from some of the lot lice, playing pranks on the artists and sometimes even the clowns before they threatened to set his bed on fire in his sleep.

Two lives, so different and yet so very similar. It was weird, now, thinking about Barney with only a hint of pain behind it. It would never go away completely, that pain, but it was small enough now that he could pretend it was just because his best friend growing up was dead. He missed him.

But now he had Tasha, who was eerily similar – though the perfect match for Barney had to be Melinda May – and Coulson who was just like Carson in his manic moods. Bucky was Tony and Thor was the Tall Man and Bruce was the Bearded Lady and Steve was definitely one of the acrobats, or maybe the pretty, tall showgirls with nerves of steel.

As much as the world changed, it was scary sometimes how much it stayed the same. And how he would never have gotten to this point without all the shit he’d gone through. If they hadn’t pushed him off the high rise, if he hadn’t gotten and arrow to the shoulder, if he hadn’t hit Barney through the heart… all those bad things, finally adding up to something good. Something purely, simply, good.

“Robin Hood, what do you think?”

Clint smirked. “I though Robin Hood was too easy.”

“Fine,” Tony rolled his eyes, planting his hands on his hips. “Green Arrow? Artemis? Sagittarius? Now my brain is stuck on mythology.”

“You haven’t used Cupid yet, somehow.” Tasha added. Her hand moved down to his neck to minimize the weird feedback from his hearing aids. God, he loved her.

“Also too easy. I’m gonna stick with Green Arrow.”

“Unoriginal, but sure.” Clint snarked back.

Steve sighed pointedly. “Guys, we were trying to decide on food.”

“Right, right.” Tony pointed at Clint. “Go on, Green Arrow. Throw your hat in the ring.”

Clint’s mind was still half on his memories of the circus, tinting everything with that rose-colored sepia of nostalgia. “How about I make you all some chili dogs?”

Bruce tilted his head. “You can cook?”

“I can make chili dogs.” Clint corrected. “Chili, hot dogs, some soups, anything easy for big crowds.”

“Well, that’s specific.” Tony raised an eyebrow, pressing the matter.

“I helped out the cooks in the circus sometimes when I was too little to help anywhere else. I learned a lot about flavor and kitchen sink recipes.” Clint brought his hand up to squeeze Tasha’s quickly before letting it drop as he sat up. “Do you guys want my world-famous chili dogs, yes or no?”

A chorus of ‘yes’s rang out, and Clint felt a genuine smile slide across his face. “All right, then. I’m going to need some hands, so we can all work together on this one. Call it team building, or whatever.”

The whole group agreed and slowly ambled into the kitchen, waiting on his instructions, and Clint couldn’t help but grin unabashedly. Sure, this job was dangerous, and the whole tower with all of them in it was a powder keg waiting for a spark, and all he had against gods and superheroes was a couple of sticks and some string, but it was also the best life he could imagine living.

He could die any day now, but he knew he’d be okay if he did. He’d do his best to put some killer graffiti up on those pearly gates, though. A trapeze swinger, high as any savior, surrounded by the weirdest things he’d seen in life to thank the universe for a life well lived. A tribute to his past, present, and hopeful future of him and everyone he knew. It was worth it, after all.


End file.
